Today, after six months in sunny Willesden Green I saw my first “There’s been a murder†yellow signâ€.
For those of you that may think this sounds a bit scary, these signs are as sacred in the outer parts of London as the blue plaques adorning the houses of Hampstead and Bloomsbury.
The two signs aren’t entirely dissimilar. The one celebrating that someone of importance lived there, the other saying that someone of no importance died.
There is a certain amount of prestige in knowing that someone has died near the shop where I buy tea and rizlas.
It happened on St Patrick’s Day, and the guy who died was known as Dublin John, presumably Dublin as in the place and not as a different way of saying doubling, unless Pete could magically increase his size by two to the bemusement of children. Unless of course the bit that was in creased was the bit that children shouldn’t see.
Hmm.
Is that speaking ill of the dead?
I’ve heard it said that people in Hampstead and Bloomsbury often fake their blue plaques to increase their property value. I’m not having any of you in interweb land thinking that I’m making this up to try and get cheaper rent (though it is a thought)